Graduation Day
by Wiccagirl24
Summary: 'This is the final test before she starts her new job Monday.  He needs to know that his teachings are well ingrained.'   Rebecca and Red John, sex and violence.  Not quite a love story


Warning: Rated R for sexual content and violence. The main character is Red John, after all. Spoilers, sort of, for 2.08 His Red Right Hand

Disclaimer: If I owned the show my favorite characters wouldn't keep dying. Not profiting from this, just entertaining myself.

Author's note: I've spent far too much time thinking about Red John and his relationships, especially those with Jane, Rosalind and Rebecca. This is the result of working out in my head just how he managed to get so much control over Rebecca. Thanks to my dearest midnightblue for the beta

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><p>"You trust me, don't you Rebecca?" The hotel room is small, but there's just enough room for a chair to fit next to the bed on one side. He sits in the chair, as relaxed as if he was at home reading the paper. His newest project, however, stands nervously in the middle of the room. Muffled by the closed bathroom door they can both hear the sound of water running; the man he's hired to meet them both here is taking a shower. The male escort is under the impression that he and Rebecca are a couple, adding a little spice to their relationship. There's no reason to disabuse him of the notion.<p>

"Yes. In everything." Her eyes light up when she looks at him. It amuses him, the way a new toy amuses a child until it breaks and gets thrown away. He gifts her with a smile.

"Then take a deep breath. I wouldn't ask you to do anything that you wouldn't enjoy. We'll _both_ enjoy this."

She barely has time to nod before the door opens and a lithe brunette man joins them, covered only by the towel wrapped around his waist. He stops at the edge of the bed, his eyes flicking between them and settling on the chair. "You are not joining us?"

"I want to watch, this time." It is not the sex that he wants to watch, but some things are best left unexplained. The man doesn't seem to find anything odd, simply looks at the two of them, waiting to see what's wanted. He comes, correctly, to the conclusion that the man in the chair is calling the shots and watches him expectantly.

"You can start by taking off her clothes. Slowly." He nods at Rebecca, then gestures with his hand at the space between them, a space that's closed quickly.

He doesn't give much thought to the skin that's revealed as sweater, blouse and bra fall to the floor. She has the qualifications he needs in order to use her; it's of no matter if her muscles are flabby and her skin is colorless. He doesn't need her to be slim and conventionally attractive; her non-descriptness is a skill of its own, and will allow her to fade into the background once she starts at the CBI. What does interest him, though, are the scars that cover the inside of her arms and the hills of her abdomen, intricate lacework etched by razors and knives that tells him more of her self loathing and pain then she's ever talked about to him. It's those emotions that he's been feeding and twisting for weeks, teaching her to direct it not at herself but at others.

"...the bed?"

The question draws him back into the room. In the brief moments he's been daydreaming, their guest has rid Rebecca of all of her clothes. She's too aware of her nakedness, looking to the bed as a way to shield herself a little. He does not allow it. "Not yet. Rebecca, you haven't granted our friend the same courtesy he's shown to you. Help him off with his towel."

"Yes. Yes, of course I will." She's so well trained that despite her nervousness she tugs at the towel, pulling it away. He's reminded of Michelangelo's David, except that no fig leaf would be able to hide the thick and slightly upturned erection.

"Someone's been busy. Do you think that's the result of pharmaceuticals or some quick handwork in the shower?" He leans forward in the chair, enough to wrap his fingers around his pupil's wrist. "Touch it. Feel the blood rushing though the veins. In your mind, imagine how it will feel plunging inside of you."

"You can do anything you want, beautiful. I'm here for you. Both of you." For the first time in some time the man speaks, taking Rebecca's hand with his own, leading it to his erection. It glistens with more than drops of water; obviously he's used the time in the bathroom for some preparation. Hand, since there's no reason for this to take longer than necessary for Rebecca to learn her most important lesson.

"She needs you to touch her. Use your talents to make her body want you. Think of her as a virgin, needing to be wooed. She is, in some ways, still so innocent." But not for long. This is the final test before she starts her new job Monday. He needs to know that his teachings are well ingrained.

"Tell me what to do." Even with the other man's hands stroking her, his lips and tongue expertly finding each erogenous zone, it's him that Rebecca looks at. He's told her nothing about tonight, but she knows that he's orchestrated every detail, like always. She seeks his council.

"Do you need this, need the release that he offers?" Her nod, and the mewling whimper that accompanies it, are all the answer he needs.

"You'll give my girl a good ride, won't you?" He smiles in anticipation as Rebecca is led to the bed. For the first time since their duo became a threesome he leaves his chair, standing on the edge of the bed where the view is clearest. From the bedside table he picks up a pair of handcuffs, government issue. "You don't mind, do you?"

When he leans to fasten the cuffs he feels a hand brush against his chest. "Are you sure you don't want to play with us?"

"No." His hands tighten, the metal of the cuffs digging into his palm. He's forced to take a few deep breaths before he trusts himself to say more.

"You're here for Rebecca. I take care of my own pleasure." The man is still a little drawn back, reluctant to allow himself to be cuffed, so he makes a show of rubbing a hand over his own crotch as he looks at the cuffs. "I want to watch her enjoyment."

He hands the cuffs to Rebecca, and there's no more resistance. The moment the man is chained to the bed her muscles visibly relax; it's almost if the man is gone now, and it's just the two of them. "Do you want him, Rebecca?"

"I want to make you happy." Her eyes are lowered as she looks at him, as if in confession.

"And I want you to feel good. This will make you feel like you never have before." He joins them on the bed, understanding that she needed to trust that he was right there with her. From behind he supports her arms, shifting them until her palms are on the escort's chest, supporting her weight. He separates her knees until one is on either side of his body. "Take him into you. Slowly. You want to feel everything."

He knows this is not her first sexual experience. He knows everything about her; she's not allowed any secrets from him, nor does she want any. For the first time she is understood, the shadows of her soul seen and praised rather than reviled. He's teaching her to use all that she's always thought she had to bury. This is not her first time having sex, not even her first time with a stranger, but it is the first time she's been given control. Even with him guiding her with his words she is the one moving up and down, controlling the speed and depth of the thrusts. He can see that pleasure in control pushing her to the edge, and he pulls her back with the prick of a pin against her skin. "Not yet."

"Please," she begs, her eyes slightly gazed. He can see her muscles trembling from the exertion and chemicals released by her brain.

"Do you question me?" His tone is even, his voice soft but he can see the fear flash in her eyes. he's had to punish her more than once, and she knows what disobedience will earn her.

"You know what's best for me." Rebecca slowed down, her eyes once again watching him, seeking approval.

"The wait will be worth it." The anticipation builds until his stomach is twisted in knots, so hungry is he for what is to come. Earlier he had set two things on the table beside the bed. The handcuffs were still in use; he now reaches for the other item.

"Are you ready?" He touches two fingers to Rebecca's shoulder, looking at her.

"Only if you think I am."

"You are." He doesn't speak, or care about, her orgasm. There is a far greater pleasure to be had, and a more important lesson to learn. He touches her hand, almost as if to shake it, and passes into her grip the razor sharp knife that he'd brought with him. "I have taught you many things, but there is some knowledge you can only experience first hand. When the time is right you will kill, for me, people that you have worked along side, perhaps even like. I know you will not fail me, but I offer you this gift. We'll call him a dress rehearsal."

"What the fuck? You can't... this isn't funny, man." No longer passive, the handcuffed man fought to escape his bonds.

"I assure you there isn't anything about this that's meant to be funny. You can be assured, though, that as even a whore remembers his first time as something special, Rebecca will always remember you as her first. The throat, I think you'll find, is the easiest." Horror dawns in the eyes of the man realizing now that the call he'd answered was the worst mistake of his life. He fights harder to escape, but his body betrays him. The friction brings both man and woman to the edge, and as the fire of orgasm sweeps over both of them, Rebecca finds nothing in her heart or mind to stop her from taking the knife and slicing it through the flesh and sinew of a human throat. The gurgle of his death cry is muffled by the scream of pleasure Rebecca cannot stop from releasing. It doesn't matter, here in a place where rooms are most often rented by the hour, and sex is more common than sleep.

The heavy smell of copper fills the air. Blood drips down the pale flesh of Rebecca's chest, thick and quivering from her panting breath, the only sound in the room now. He watches her, thinking to himself that she's never looked more alive than now, covered in death. Later this image, as much as the fear in the man's eyes, will play in the theater of his mind as he strokes himself in the privacy of his own bed.


End file.
